Hitman - The Other Man
by najhoant
Summary: In Italy, 47 is assigned a hit on a CEO, but hits a bump in the road when someone else turns out to also be after the target. My first work of fanfiction and the first part in a series of three stories. Meant to take place in the time before the events leading up to Absolution but after Blood Money. Will publish the other chapters over a few weeks.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

_March 13, 2009._

_Rome, Italy_

_21:19_

47 watched as Lorenzo Moro stepped up to the podium. He wore a black suit with a snow white shirt and green bowtie (no doubt a lucky charm of some kind). 47 noticed an expensive pair of shiny black leather shoes that seemed custom-made on his feet and an even shinier golden Rolex on his wrist – both of which were beyond the salary of someone in his profession. As the crowd, all dressed in black tuxedos and colorful dresses, applauded, 47's eyes rose towards the ceiling and the heavy, shiny chandelier that hung right above the desk and then towards the chain that kept it suspended. Nobody could see him on the walkway; everyone's eyes were targeted at Moro and even if they saw him, he was just a janitor. It hadn't been hard to steal a uniform from the locker room. Listening to Moro's frantic and passionate oration, 47 checked the magazine of his Silverballer. Fully loaded, plus the one in the barrel. Keeping the gun out of sight, he carefully screwed on the silencer. He took aim just over the railing. Being fluent in Italian, 47 could tell Moro's speech was coming to an end. When the applause filled the room, 47 squeezed the trigger. The next second, the applauds were silenced by the roar of the chandelier crashing down on the podium – right on top of Senator Moro. While the crowd seemed to gradually realize what had just happened, 47 tucked away his gun, picked up the lone shell casing and quickly walked away. As some of the guests started screaming and calling for ambulances at the sight of Moro's mangled body underneath the spaghetti of blood and bent, twisted and crushed metal, he slipped out of the room. In the kitchen, the cooks and other staff members were murmuring, wondering what had just happened. They didn't even seem to notice 47. In the parking lot outside, 47 snuck into his rental car and quietly drove away into the night as a drizzle came down on the windshield. Another job done.

_March 14, 2009_

_Rome, Italy_

_21:02_

"Italians were shocked last evening at the announcement of the tragic death of Senator Lorenzo Moro of the Italian Parliament," the voice of BBC World News said in the background of a clip package of some of Moro's public appearances. He wasn't particularly well-known outside of Italy, but because of the freakish nature of his demise, international press had taken a huge interest in the story. It would probably die out within a few days.

"The Senator had been a member of the Italian parliament since 1994 and enjoyed fairly consistent approval ratings in spite of being accused of bribery in two separate investigations; one in 1996 and one in 2002. Though he was cleared of all charges both times, the controversies had a definite effect on his political advancements. After years of campaigning to improve his public image, Moro was often named by journalists as one of the favorite candidates for the position of prime minister of Italy. He died just after delivering a speech at a professional correspondents' dinner in Rome last night when a chandelier fell from the ceiling and landed on top of the Senator. Italian authorities stated during a press conference this morning that his death was almost certainly an accident and thus they will not carry out a criminal investigation."

47 smiled satisfied and took a sip of his scotch. Even if they investigated and the bullet was recovered, they still wouldn't have anything on him. He'd have a few more days in Italy before it was time to go back to the states. Massive storms had grounded most flights out of the country and showed no sign of stopping. Outside, the rain was still pouring. Didn't bother 47 much; even if it had been sunny all day long, Rome would have been wasted on him. Travelling wasn't much fun if you had to lay low all the time. His suite was probably the biggest tourist attraction he would see during his stay there. On a desk across the room, his laptop came alive with a bleeping signal; the Agency was calling.

"Excellent work, 47," a familiar English voice said. "Our source in the Polizia di Stato confirms that the crime scene is clean."

The voice was Diana, his handler from the Agency.

"The shot hit the light fixture and severed the chain perfectly. We sent in a cleanup crew just in case, but they couldn't find the slug anywhere."

"I appreciate that."

"We also took care of the security guard."

47's heart skipped a beat.

"What security guard," he asked suspiciously.

"The one whose uniform you took? They found him dead in a closet near the reception."

47 said nothing.

"47, are you saying that wasn't you?"

"I tried to make Moro look like an accident. Killing someone and taking their clothes to do so would defeat the purpose. I took a janitor's overall from a locker, nobody even saw me."

On the other end of the line, Diana sighed.

"That is…problematic."

"Is your source reliable?"

"Perfectly. The good news is that the guard was a moonlighting police officer. We can arrange for the police to angle the investigation away from the Senator."

"Could there have been another assassin?"

"Senator Moro had many enemies, so I guess it's not impossible."

"I suppose that helps," 47 remarked.

"In any case, we have some jobs that could use your attention. How soon can you be back in the States?"

"On TV they said the storm will keep up for days. No flights are going in or out from within ten miles from here."

"Would you be open for some more work while you're in Italy?"

47 looked out the window, on which drops of rain were impacting and running down the glass.

"What else have I got to do with my time?"

"I'll get back to you if anything opens up."

Diana logged off. The conversation left 47 with an unpleasant feeling in his gut. There had been occasions when even he had left evidence behind, but another assassin? Still, it wasn't entirely improbable; a lot of people wanted Moro dead because of his businesses on the side, any of them could have sent a killer of their own to eliminate him. The wise thing for that person to do would be to use a public appearance of the target as a window of opportunity. 47 spent the rest of the evening imagining what the assassin's plan had been and for what purpose he had needed the uniform. Maybe he was planning to shoot the Senator during the speech and slip away in the resulting panic. Or maybe he was going to lure Moro away somewhere more private and kill him there after the speech. Before going to bed, 47 made a long, hard extra check on the protection on his suite's door and windows.

_March 16, 2009_

_Rome, Italy_

_13:18_

Life in hiding days after a hit did not suit 47 well. Touristing was not his game even if the weather was perfect, so Rome didn't have much to offer him. He had spent the past day and a half wondering about the other assassin and going through the night of the gala minute by minute to figure out if he could have been exposed. He had dealt with the risk of other assassins before when the Franchise was still in business, but he usually had some idea if another killer were present. Some might call it intuition; he just called it experience. After what felt like days of being locked up in the hotel, except for a visit to a nearby art gallery, Diana's call was welcome.

"We got another job today," she said. "You're in perfect position to handle it."

"It's local, then?"

"Indeed. You'll receive twice your usual fee."

"How come?"

"The target is not easily accessible and there are some other specifics for how you should handle the case."

47 was reluctantly intrigued. He wasn't usually the kind who took jobs for the challenge (years of training and conditioning had seen to that), but this one was tempting.

"I'll take it," he said.

"Splendid. The information should appear on your screen."

A file appeared on 47's laptop, complete with photos and other information.

"The target," Diana said, "is Sabrina Giuttari."

47 looked at the profile photo. Giuttari looked surprisingly young for being in her 50s apart from the slight gray streaks in the otherwise dark brown hair near her temples.

"She is the CEO of a computer company based in Italy. She will be hosting a conference with several of her overseas managers on Friday."

"Four days from now," 47 remarked.

"Yes, I know it's short notice, but with the intel we have on the location, it should be straightforward enough. The conference will be held on the top floor of the company's main office in downtown Rome. Most of the building has high security, but the upper floors are much less guarded. The reception and elevators have cameras, so you'll have to enter another way."

"The only other way is from above. Are you suggesting you airdrop me onto the building?"

"Of course not, that would be far too conspicuous. The building has service stairs you can enter from the back. No cameras. They should take you close to the top floor."

"Sounds simple enough."

"However, the client has some specifics for the kill."

"Anything serious?"

"They want you to use a weapon from the building that can be connected to Giuttari and they need you to bring that weapon with you afterwards with her blood on it."

47 hesitated for a second. He knew better than to ask questions about the client, but became suspicious.

"That's fine," he said anyway.

"Excellent, 47. We'll send an operative to a location of your choice to pick up the weapon when you're done. Good luck with your assignment."

Diana logged off.

47 continued reading the file. Giuttari was apparently something of a legend in the Italian world of commerce. One of the youngest people on record to graduate with a master's degree from the University of Bologna, she inherited her father's company, which then was less than half its present size, after he died in a suspicious car accident and eventually changed the company's focus from general electronics to computer hardware. Her mother had died of a cancer when she was a teenager. She was known to be ruthless in business and had brought down several other corporations through fusions and takeovers. The company, currently named GiuTech, had suffered some minor controversies over the years. One was in 2003 when a newspaper in Milan ran a story accusing the company of insider trading. The journalist who wrote the piece disappeared less than a week later and his source, a member of the board of directors, was found dead in his house two days after that. His death was attributed to natural causes. Another was in 2007 when one of the company's own branch managers fell from a rooftop and rumors circulated that Giuttari had tried to bribe the police into ruling the death a suicide prematurely. While nothing was proven, Giuttari was scheduled to be audited a month later, but the Agenzia delle Entrate (author's note: the Italian Revenue Service) reversed its decision a week before the scheduled date.


	2. Chapter 2

_March 20, 2009_

_Rome, Italy_

_16:11_

With its 48 floors, GiuTech's building stood like a castle in the downtown area of Rome. Agent 47 had spent the past three days doing surveillance and had even snuck into the building a few times disguised as a janitor. Diana was right: the main lobby wasn't an option. According to building schematics supplied by the Agency, there were cameras in front of the elevators on every floor. If he got caught on even one of them, it could be enough to catch him. There was also a pair of security guards on each floor on rotating eight-hour shifts and at least ten on the ground floor with metal detectors in front of the elevators. Even if he could create a good enough disguise, he wouldn't be able to enter with his weapons. Cars were lining up by the sidewalk in front of the house and in a parking lot next to the building. Out of each one stepped men in smart-looking three-piece suits carrying umbrellas. They were there for the conference, no doubt. 47 had planned ahead and put together a disguise consisting of a navy blue suit, a white shirt, a baby blue tie, calf skin shoes, a black rain coat, a brown short-hair wig to cover his barcode tattoo, a pair of square glasses and a fake belly underneath to put an extra 30 pounds on him as well as covering the body armor he wore underneath his shirt. Nobody would notice another man in a suit. Because of the rain, he had also brought an umbrella, which gave his face some extra cover. Underneath the common, professional exterior he carried his usual gear: a silenced Silverballer, his fiber wire, a syringe and some sedative doses and extra magazines of ammo just in case. He also brought a sealable plastic bag in which to carry the bloody murder weapon and some thick latex gloves so he wouldn't leave any prints inside. The conference would begin in just a few minutes and go on until past 10:00 p.m. Hell of a way to spend a Friday night, 47 thought. Giuttari was quite a workaholic; during the three days that he had staked out the building, she had come to work at 8:00 a.m. almost on the dot every morning and left no sooner than 7:30 p.m. 47 followed the sidewalk outside the reception's line of sight and snuck into the alley between the GiuTech building and the neighboring house, apparently a residential building. He picked open the locked grey door on the side of the building, left the umbrella behind and entered a long, long staircase. After one of the longest walks he'd had in recent history, not just because of the total distance of the 96 flights of stairs, but also because he had to stop to look for cameras at every turn, he arrived on the 48th floor. Though the conference would be held primarily on the two floors below, the top floor was Giuttari's own office. 47 discreetly opened the door and peeked through the slit. According to the building plans, the office was surrounded by a wall of safety glass the only opening of which was right in front of the elevator, essentially forming what might have been the largest office cubicle the world had ever seen. While there apparently were no cameras inside the office, there was one above the elevator. 47 could see the glass wall and knew he was at the eastern wall. The elevator was at the southern one. The glass wall created a kind of corridor between itself and the building walls. 47 realized that it meant anyone could see him through it. Luckily, there were shelves, drawers and other things stacked up against the glass that gave him ample cover.

Quick as lightning, 47 crouched, slipped through the door, gently closed it behind him and then hugged the glass wall behind a charcoal grey metallic shelf on the other side. As he peeked past it, he could see Giuttari inside by a grey desk with a bunch of men in suits in front of it. On her side stood a man probably half her age taking notes; her secretary, 47 figured. He couldn't hear what they were saying (that was probably half the point of the safety glass), but they all seemed to be reading from papers of some sort. Giuttari, who had a satisfied smile on her face, just listened intently and occasionally nodded in response. She looked mostly the same as on the photo from the Agency's file, except her hair was curled up into a bun and not pinned back and she wasn't wearing glasses. She wore a grey pantsuit, black heels and a tiny silver brooch on her lapel which 47 recognized as the GiuTech logo. Eventually, the secretary looked at his watch and then waved the other men off. 47 looked at his own wristwatch. The conference was about to start in just three minutes. Inside the office, Giuttari opened a tinted medicine jar, shook out a white pill, swallowed it with a glass of water and put the pill jar in a desk drawer. 47 groaned inside when it crossed his mind how easy it would have been to just spray some poison on her drugs, but since his client had requested something more personal, he'd have to find some other means. He kept his eyes fixed on her as she walked out of the office followed by her secretary and the other suits. Skipping from cover to cover, he followed the party as it walked towards the elevator. At the office's entrance, 47 listened as Giuttari talked to two security guards in ash grey uniforms with black shoes and belts with walkie-talkies and gun holsters. One was fairly young, maybe in his late 20s, was tall and had light-brown hair and the other was quite a bit older and heavier and had grey hair.

"Don't let anyone in if they're not on the approved list and don't have ID tags," she told them sharply. Her voice was low, but a bit scratchy, as though she was an ex-smoker. "If you have to leave for any reason, call for a replacement first."

Both men nodded quickly as though out of fright and sighed relieved the second the elevator doors closed.

"_Puttana_," the younger guard said under his breath, but the next moment his eyes widened and he looked at the camera as though he was afraid that someone might have heard him.

"Relax," the senior guard said. "It doesn't record audio."

"Thank God for that."

47 peeked around a corner of the glass wall. He didn't have a very good shot of either guard, though he could see the camera above the elevator. Since it was fixed on the office entrance, it couldn't see him where he was.

"Why did the boss become such a tightass today," the younger guard asked. "I mean, more than usual."

"It's the conference," his superior said. "She doesn't trust anyone, not even those guys who crawl at her feet. She even put some merc in the surveillance room to keep an eye on the security guys."

"You've gotta be kidding me," the younger guard said.

"I wish I were."

47 had an idea and brought out his Silverballer. It would be a difficult thing to do and would be quite a gamble, but he couldn't see any other way in. He steadied his aim and lined up the sights at the camera.

"Paranoid _puttana_," the younger guard said brazenly.

47 squeezed the trigger and the gun made a tiny cough as the .45 bullet impacted on its target. Neither guard seemed to notice. Less than ten seconds later, the younger one's walkie-talkie crackled and a distorted voice was heard.

"Calling units on the top floor, over."

The guard picked up the walkie-talkie and replied.

"Unit 2-48 here. What's the problem?"

"We're not getting any feed from the camera near your position. Has someone tampered with it?"

"No, we've been standing here for hours. Nobody's touched it."

47's plan was working.

"Could you take a look at it," the radio voice said.

"Will do," the guard said. "Stand by."

He turned off the walkie-talkie and approached the camera. His superior remained in place and just watched him as he examined every angle of the camera. Meanwhile, 47 silently but quickly approached him as close to the glass wall as possible to stay out of his line of sight. When he was close enough to smell the old guard's aftershave, he in one fluid motion quickly pulled out the syringe, grabbed the man's mouth with his left hand to silence him, darted behind him and used his free hand to inject the sedative into his victim's carotid artery. He felt the man turn limp in his arms and gently laid him down on the floor while his partner examined the camera, completely unaware of the assassin behind him. He did however notice the tiny hole in the wall near the camera's attachment.

"What the he-"

He was cut short when 47 grabbed him from behind in a chokehold, pulled him to the floor and started asphyxiating him. The guard fought to free himself futilely as the world went black before his eyes. When he felt sure that his target was unconscious, 47 let him go. Sure enough, he was out cold. He then quickly tried to remember the guard's voice.

"Unit 2-48 here. Nothing wrong with the camera. Might be the wiring," he said.

"Unit 2-48 here. Nothing wrong with the camera. Might be the wiring," he said again with a higher pitch.

He rehearsed the line five or six times, trying to get the guard's voice just right. He knew that if he took too long, the staff in the surveillance room would get suspicious. Finally, he removed the guard's walkie-talkie from his belt and said:

"Unit 2-48 here. Nothing wrong with the camera. Might be the wiring."

"Roger that," the radio voice replied immediately. "We'll have tech support take a look at the main hub. Over and out."

The voice hung up. 47 now had the whole floor to himself.

_16:53_

After dragging each sedated guard to the room behind the service door and surveying the office interior for cameras, 47 stepped through the glass doorway and started searching the office. Since Giuttari or one of her coworkers could be back any minute, time was of the essence. Giuttari's office was remarkably sterile. Just the desk, chair, a few empty shelves and drawers and some cardboard boxes filled with books about economics and computers. The light came from some fluorescent lamps apparently built into the ceiling itself, there were no windows anywhere. The desk was in perfect order with a screen, a mouse and a keyboard on the desktop. The hard drive was probably underneath. Otherwise, there was nothing noteworthy or even anything analogue in sight; no framed photos, no decorations, not even pen or blank papers. On the walls behind the desk hung some framed diplomas and certificates, including her degree from the University of Bologna. 47 realized just how difficult the contract's specifics would be since there was nothing in sight that could be effectively used as a weapon, much less linked to Giuttari.

_Unless I take her diploma and paper cut her to death_, he mused.

47 started searching the desk drawers. In the first he checked was the pill jar, which wouldn't be specific enough to fit the contract terms. In the same drawer lay something more suspicious: three magazines for a small semi-automatic pistol and a bunch of loose .22 rounds, but no gun. Was Giuttari walking around with a gun at the conference? After glancing towards the elevator, 47 checked the drawer below. Stationery. Next drawer. Empty.

_Damn._

47 looked at the middle drawer again and dug around a bit. Blank paper sheets, envelopes, some pens, a stapler and a tiny box of paper clips. There was one more item that caught 47's eye: a wine-red ornamental wooden box. On the lid there was an oval brass sign that read:

_Salomone Giuttari_

_1929-1982_

Inside was an old-fashioned metallic knife. It looked like a narrow dagger and was probably used by Giuttari as a letter opener. Rather unflattering since her father's name was on the box. The pointy blade looked 11 or 12 inches long and had a round hand guard. Having seen a few in storage at Gontranno, 47 recognized it as a rondel dagger. The engraving on the base of the blade caught 47's attention:

_Per mi figlia Sabrina_

_Chi dorme non piglia pesci_

"For my daughter Sabrina", it said. That plus the box should be enough to link her to the weapon. Then there was the final touch: her blood on it.

_17:31_

Realizing that he had no way of knowing when Giuttari would return to her office, 47 took the dagger box, slipped it into the plastic bag in his inside jacket pocket and hid in a corner near the elevator where he would be out of sight if someone stepped out of it. As he waited for the sound of the elevator going up, his mind drifted back to the second assassin. If there had even been another assassin and not just some other random killer, which seemed unlikely, that killer was probably long gone by now or at least none of his concern. He looked at his wristwatch. The conference had been going on for a full hour by now. When 47 suddenly heard a distinct rising hum in the elevator shaft, he crouched and tightened his grip around the dagger, which he had removed from its box. The hum became louder and louder before coming to a dead halt not two feet from him. The doors slid open and Giuttari, who seemed to be in surprisingly good spirits, stepped out talking to someone on her left. When she and her partner entered the office, 47 discovered why she was in such a good mood. The other passenger was her secretary, whose back she was fondling intimately, her hand gradually journeying southward. The secretary seemed surprisingly at ease around her. 47 moved behind the glass wall so he was covered by a drawer and peeked around. Almost as soon as Giuttari and the secretary were outside the camera's line of sight, she spun him around and pulled his lips onto hers. They kissed passionately as she caressed him.

"_Signora_," the secretary said, "I don't think we have the time-"

Giuttari ignored him.

"Relax. They know my office is off-limits."

She stopped for a second and looked to the doorway. 47 crept further behind cover just in case.

"Where the hell are the guards," she blurted out angrily. The secretary pulled her closer and seemed to instantly take her mind off of it.

"Whatever," she said as he kissed her neck. "I'll fire them later."

Apparently her mind wasn't completely elsewhere. 47 took no enjoyment from watching what was going on in the office, but situations like these were not unheard of in his line of work. Tightly clutching the dagger, he kept waiting for an opportune moment when their eyes would be averted and he could approach them. His wish was apparently granted when Giuttari, careful to avoid the computer screen, sat down on the desk and spread her legs and the secretary stepped in front of her, reached down and kept kissing her. 47 started tiptoeing towards the desk, staying low in case Giuttari looked over the secretary's shoulder as she started removing his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt. There would be some collateral damage, but it couldn't be helped; this was probably the best opportunity he would get all night. When there were just a few feet between him and the secretary, 47 waited for the secretary to stand up straighter. Then, in one quick move, he slapped his left palm over the young man's mouth and slashed his throat with the century-old blade. As he heard the man gargle and blood gushed from his jugular, 47 threw the man aside to take out Giuttari. He was met with an unpleasant surprise when, apparently unfazed by the sight of her lover being killed right in front of her, she had already pulled out a small Beretta and aimed it at 47's abdomen.

"_Bastardo_", she cried out furiously as she rapidly fired three rounds into her attacker. 47 felt three heavy jabs into his stomach as the .22 rounds went through his fake belly only to be stopped by his body armor. He had suspected that she would be carrying the gun on her person, but was genuinely impressed with her reaction time. Still holding the dagger in his right hand, he used his free one to push the gun's barrel away from him. As Giuttari managed to squeeze of two more rounds into the safety glass, 47 plunged the knife into her chest. She froze for a split second and then went limp and collapsed on her desk, the dagger sticking out of her torso. Her mouth was slightly open, baring her snow white teeth, and her eyes were still. 47 checked her pulse and confirmed that she was dead. Judging from the location of the dagger, he must have stabbed her straight through the heart. The job was half-done. He quickly pulled out the blade and put it in its box. Not the cleanest hiding spot maybe, but the client probably wouldn't mind. Taking one last look at his dead target and her lover, who lay on the floor in a pool of his own blood, the assassin removed the latex gloves, slipped them into his pocket along with the box and quickly walked towards the service door.


	3. Chapter 3

_17:47_

Just as the service door was within 47's reach, it burst open in front of him. As he instinctively backed away, it took him a few seconds to get a grip on what was happening. In front of him saw the two office guards plus a third one pointing their Beretta 92:s at him and shouting at him in angry Italian to step back. The guards were furious, understandably, and seemed more than willing to pull the trigger on him anytime. The third, a tall, slightly heavyset man with ash grey hair underneath his uniform's cap and a salt and pepper Van Dyke on his chin, seemed more composed. He wore a sky blue shirt with badges and emblems sewn onto it and navy blue pants with a vertical red line on the side of the legs. 47 recognized it as an Italian police uniform.

"Sir," he said in calm English, "put your hands above your head."

"I'm sorry," 47 said, turning on his acting skills, "is this _signora_ Giuttari's office? I'm here for the conference and just-"

The guards didn't listen. The two door guards aggressively approached him as the four of them moved through the corridor. Raising his arms, 47 fought hard against the urge to peek at the office since they would look in that direction as well and see the bodies if he did. When he got close to the elevator, he stopped, as did the guards. The police officer was still just as calm and composed as he handed the younger guard a pair of plastic flex cuffs.

"Cuff him," he ordered him.

In a split second, 47 understood that he would have to act fast. When the guard came close enough, he would grab him, snatch his gun and gain the upper hand. The young man approached him, aiming his Beretta at his head, or at least trying to with the flex cuffs in one of his hands. When he returned the gun to his holster, 47 seized the opportunity, grabbed the gun, pulled him close in a chokehold with his left arm and aimed the Beretta at the other guards while their colleague cursed him in Italian. The senior guard seemingly started to panic, but the policeman just stared into 47's eyes as the standoff began.

"Drop your guns now," 47 told them sharply.

The response was not what he expected. There were two loud bangs from the other side, both from the policeman, and he felt an intense pain in his left arm. In front of him, his hostage fell down with a bleeding cherry red hole clean between his eyes. A third shot came, striking 47 in his left shoulder and knocking him down to the floor. 47 was too momentarily dazed to see the flabbergasted look on the senior guard's face as the man he thought was his ally fired four rounds into his chest, killing him. He then shifted his attention to 47, aiming the Beretta at him.

A wide grin spread across the face of the officer as a satisfied chuckle came out of his mouth.

"You really do have skills," he told 47 in English as he clutched his arm, trying to come up with his next move. "I knew it was a good idea to hire you."

47 racked his brain, trying to remember if he had seen the man before.

"It's hard, you know," the man said as he removed his cap and threw it aside like a Frisbee, "when you're crawling on the floor like a dog, it's hard to imagine that you're the man who killed Senator Moro."

47 scanned the man's face as he tried to get a grip on the situation. He noticed that his round face was decorated with odd tiny scars and short, chalk white stubble around the beard, but there was nothing noteworthy that could identify him. Though he seemed to be at least 40 or 45 years old, his skin looked remarkably young. Try as he might, 47 couldn't remember seeing the man anywhere at the correspondents' dinner.

"I don't know what you're talking about," 47 replied flatly.

The man casually fired a shot into the floor inches from 47's torso, unsuccessfully trying to provoke a reaction.

"Don't even try to lie to me. Or do I have to take off that ridiculous toupee you've got there and check your barcode, "Mr. 47"?"

In that moment it became clear that he was genuine. 47 counted the possibilities in his head: could he be from Alpha Zerox? They still hadn't forgotten about the Franchise fiasco. Some friend of a past target wanting revenge? Or even sent by The Agency itself? How else could he have known about the barcode? Still waiting for a window of opportunity to draw his Silverballer, 47 decided to put the cards on the table.

"How did you know?"

The other assassin smiled with satisfaction.

"It's a long story," he said, trying to be cryptic.

"Something tells me we have time."

"It all started when Senator Moro died. Or should I say "was murdered", Mr. Assassin?"

With his free hand, he started unbuttoning his shirt.

"I must hand it to you, it was a _brilliant_ idea."

He opened his shirt, revealing a Kevlar vest underneath on top of a white tee, and raised the shirt at the left shoulder.

"But every bullet has to hit something."

On his shoulder there was a white square-shaped piece of band-aid taped to it. Almost right in the center was a round, red spot of blood.

"And yours hit me on the way up."

In a flash, the truth became apparent to 47.

"You were in the attic."

"I guess it's true that great minds think alike. I admit you probably had the right of way there."

"You killed the guard," 47 thought out loud.

"Cop uniforms make brilliant disguises, don't they? People let you in _everywhere_."

"So what was the problem? Moro is dead, the job is done."

The assassin suddenly flared up and fired twice into the floor dangerously close to 47's crotch.

"Not for me, it's not!"

In a flash, he had become boiling with anger.

"That was _my_ hit, _mine_! My plan was _perfect_! And then, when you fired the bullet, weeks, _weeks_, of planning turned to shit! Just getting the bomb cost me almost a thousand Euros. But _you_ went and turned it into an accident. And so, since my employer had nothing to pay me for, my payment turned to air."

By now he was shouting.

"_Half a million Euros_! And to top it all off, I have to pay back the €100,000 advance."

He aimed the gun straight between 47's eyes.

"And my client does _not_ look kindly on failure!"

In another instant, he seemed to wind down again.

"But I was given another chance. My client will forget about the advance he gave me _and_ pay me another €200,000 once I cash in on this hit."

"I take it you're my client?"

"Wow," the assassin said, mockingly impressed, "you're wasting your time as a contract killer, you're quite the detective."

Something else crossed 47's mind.

"Hold on, you said you're getting €200,000 for this?"

"Right."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but unless the global economy is somehow flipped on its head within the next 24 hours that won't be enough to pay the money the contract guaranteed."

"No, but as far as _your_ employer is concerned, your job's not done yet. Until you deliver the murder weapon, anyway."

47 realized why that was necessary.

"Your employer is a smart man."

The assassin looked at him suspiciously.

"How so?"

"That's why he didn't pay you for the senator, right? No evidence."

The assassin angrily aimed his gun at 47's head.

"You shut your mouth," he seethed.

"If you had detonated the bomb and brought down the chandelier, there would have been traces of the explosives you used everywhere. Your boss probably has someone inside the police who would give him a sample."

"I said shut-"

"Your boss takes the sample, compares it with another sample given by you, and that would prove you earned that half million."

Two shots were fired into the ceiling. The assassin looked positively livid.

"Right on all counts," he admitted begrudgingly. "Now hand me whatever it was you used."

At that moment, he finally spotted Giuttari's body. 47 detected a hint of a smile on his face and a glimpse of excitement in his eyes.

"Not bad," he said. "You've got talent, I'll give you that much."

47 saw an opportunity and took it. Making a mighty push from the floor with his good arm, he lunged upwards, grabbed the assassin's gun and wrenched it out of his hand, flinging it away from them. His opponent reacted quickly and with precision, making a well-aimed jab at his wounded shoulder, pushing him backwards, and followed it up with a heel kick to 47's abdomen. He grabbed the assassin's foot with his good arm as it came towards him, pulled him close and floored him with a face-smashing headbutt. While the assassin lay groaning on the floor, 47 reached for his Silverballer and aimed it at him. Right there, when he should have just put a bullet in his skull and left, 47 realized that there was one piece of information that could come in handy later.

"Do you have a name?"

"Does anyone in our line of work," the assassin asked.

"I'm more curious as to how you know mine."

"I'd hardly call a number a name. Would you?"

47 fired into the floor inches from the head of the assassin, who didn't even flinch.

"Only one of us will walk out of here alive," 47 told him. "Regardless of who that is, I'd like to be able to identify you."

The assassin grinned.

"Believe me, someone out there knows who I am."

47 realized that questioning him would be too time-consuming and futile for him to even try. He aimed the gun at the man's forehead.

"I look forward to finding out."


	4. Chapter 4

_17:52_

In that moment, the elevator doors slid apart. As 47 instinctively (and begrudgingly) backed away from the assassin, he slipped the Silverballer into the back of his trousers and watched as men dressed in blue overalls, body armor, helmets and balaclavas and armed with MP5s stormed inside. As they shouted at him to raise his hands, he realized that they were NOCS, a kind of Italian equivalent to American SWAT teams. He counted five, three of whom were coming towards him, holding him at gunpoint. The other assassin's acting skills made themselves apparent as the men who thought he was a brother in arms helped him to his feet and even gave him his gun back.

"This man killed _signora_ Giuttari," he told them.

The NOCS approached 47, who backed towards the service door, wondering if there was another team set up behind it. Meanwhile, he noticed that the assassin was clutching his Beretta eagerly. He was going to start shooting and both he and 47 knew it. If one of the NOCS decided to call for backup, he could really panic. Luckily, he wasn't going to start when there were so many in one room and he had already spent so much ammo it would be difficult for him to take out everyone without reloading. 47 thought back to the shooting. Two shots into him. Five shots at the two other guards. Five more when he was interrogated. His Beretta couldn't hold more than 15, maybe 16 if he had another one chambered. Either way, that meant he wouldn't be able to kill all the NOCS and him in one stroke. The assassin himself also seemed to have realized this as he now seemed intensely focused on one of the NOCS officers' holstered sidearm. Then, in one move, he quickly grabbed the officer from behind and snapped his neck without any of the others even noticing it. Holding the corpse in front of him, he pulled out the sidearm and killed the second one with a clean headshot. While the other three turned, 47 seized the opportunity and ran for the service door. As he slipped inside, he heard three more shots from the assassin's new Beretta followed by the sound of three bodies falling down. Practically leaping down each flight of stairs, 47 could hear the imposter following him, cursing him at every single step. He worried whether or not the NOCS had set up a second team somewhere along the way, though it didn't seem likely that they would wait so long after hearing more gunshots.

After minutes of alternating between skipping and sprinting down stairs, 47 exited through the service door. Looking towards the street near the entrance, he could see red and blue lights shining on the street in the dark. The police had probably set up all over the street in front of the building. It must have been sheer luck on his part that they hadn't bothered looking more carefully at the building plans and seen the service stairs. 47 came to the conclusion that his best option was probably to steal a car and drive away to the location of his Agency contact. He was supposed to just hand him the murder weapon so it could be delivered to the client, but since the client was chasing him with a lethal weapon there would have to be a change of plans. He turned around and exited on the street on the other side of the building. Things weren't too busy; the GiuTech building wasn't anywhere near any popular nighttime district. 47 scanned the side of the road looking for a good getaway vehicle. The pursuer was probably seconds away, so he had to act fast. Carjacking wasn't his style, but it was desperate times. He picked a year-old blue Chrysler parked a few feet from where he stood. Reaching for his Silverballer, he went to the driver's side and smashed the window with the handle. In response, the car started howling and its lights started blinking. While the act caught the attention of a number of bystanders, some of whom brought out their cell phones and started calling 112, 47 could see the fake police officer, his face positively livid and his Beretta in his hand, rushing towards him through the alleyway. Slipping on another pair of latex gloves and reaching through the broken window, 47 quickly unlocked the door from the inside and got in. Not far away, the assassin raised his gun. 47 ducked and heard the bullets hit the side of the vehicle and go through the passenger side window. He reached below the dashboard, removed the hatch and looked for the wires to hotwire the car. Meanwhile, the assassin fired more and more rounds his way. In the nick of time, the car engine came alive. Still keeping his head down, 47 aimed his Silverballer through the passenger side window and fired in the direction of the shots' source. He then changed the gear and hit the gas pedal, driving the car forward. The assassin continued firing at him as he sped south down the road. The Agency contact would be near the hotel, less than ten minutes away. After delivering the dagger, 47 would have to pack up his things and get out as soon as possible; there was no way the man pursuing him would let a few locked doors stop him.

_18:02_

When 47 arrived at a bridge over the Tiber, he was unpleasantly surprised. Half the bridge was sealed off with large red plastic cones and construction vehicles, yet not a single worker could be seen. There were two remaining lanes; one entering and one exiting, both of which were clogged up by traffic. As he started planning another route, he heard a distinctive screeching noise behind him. He saw a green Volkswagen driving towards his position at full speed, racing past and sometimes sideswiping any cars it came across. He quickly got out of the car, launched himself onto the roof of a black Honda and started running between the cars in the forest of vehicles across the bridge. It wasn't the fastest mode of transportation, but the other assassin wouldn't be able to go any faster. The assassin behind him was quick to follow and started running between the cars as a lot of surprised passengers looked on. Halfway across the bridge, the traffic seemed to clear up. The reason was that traffic police had set up an improvised checkpoint that guided cars past a massive hole on the right side of the bridge, which was no doubt the reason for the road work. Upon entering the clearing, it became obvious to 47 that the traffic was even tighter on the other side of road. All four lanes were jammed and since any eventual traffic officers seemed to have abandoned their posts, the drivers did not seem reluctant to take the matter into their own hands. When a blue Ford went south and a hideous purple Ferrari went north at the same time and collided, coming to a sudden halt, 47 realized that he might just die on that bridge. He quickly started running towards the other side, hoping to lose his pursuer among the cars. As he sprinted, there were two bangs behind him and he stumbled forward as if someone had pulled out a tripwire in front of him, collapsing on the asphalt ground. It became apparent to 47 that that wasn't what had happened when he felt a surge of pain spread from his right calf to the rest of the leg. He spun around and saw the assassin clutching his Beretta in his shaking, bloody hand and aiming it at him; 47 noticed that the glove had been torn in places and could spot tiny pieces of glass sparkling in the light of the roadside lamp posts.

"You know," he told 47, "before I met you the longest I'd ever let a target get away was three minutes."

He laughed bitterly and fired into 47's right foot, causing him to double over as pain panged through the limb once again. By now, he had become so used to the slight burning sensations all over his body that the injuries had become manageable.

"The weapon," he yelled. "_Now_!"

47 had an idea. It would be a desperate one, but it would be his last chance. Using his remaining useful limbs to their fullest available strength, he slowly rose up. Behind the assassin, he could tell the car passengers were cowering behind the dashboards and keeping their children down besides themselves. The ones behind him were no doubt doing the same. Slowly, so as to make it clear to his opponent that what he was reaching for wasn't a gun, he reached into his jacket pocket, extracted the bagged box containing the bloody knife and displayed it to the assassin.

"Open it."

47 took out the box, threw the plastic bag into the Tiber and held the box open so the assassin could see the knife clearly. The man grinned.

"Toss it over here."

His words couldn't have been more poorly chosen.

With his healthy arm, 47 took the box and flung it almost completely vertically into the air and started limping towards the railing. Unfortunately, his opponent didn't fall for the trick. The second the box became airborne, the man's Beretta barked again and 47 felt another shot pierce his flesh; this time he was hit in the right lower arm as he ran. The impact was enough to knock him off of his balance and push him onto the ground again. Amidst the throbbing pain, he heard the assassin approach him.

"Good idea," he said. "But I haven't fallen for that one since '94. It was in Germany, I think."

Holding him at gunpoint, he reached down to the ground and picked up the box, which had sprung open as it hit the ground. He looked at the bloody dagger and smiled in triumph.

"You did a good job, Mr. 47. I'll give you that much."

He aimed the Beretta at 47, who uttered a quiet prayer.

"Sorry about this. I know you understand."

There was a bang behind him and he was shoved forward onto the ground in front of 47, who immediately looked towards the source of the noise and saw some uniformed police officers taking cover near the cars.

"This is the police," one of them shouted in Italian. "Keep your hands where we can see them." He repeated the phrases in English.

The bullet seemed to have hit the assassin in his body armor, because his reaction was mostly one of annoyance. 47 could hear him growl like an angry bear as he got up. Then he could practically see the man's face lose color as it dawned on him that the box was gone. First he looked towards 47 accusingly, but then looked in the same direction as him: under the railing separating the bridge from the river. He rose up and screamed furiously, his eyes red with anger, spun around and started shooting towards the officers. 47 responded quickly and rolled towards the railing. As the assassin actually seemed to have gotten the advantage despite being alone and without cover, 47 squeezed through the gap between the asphalt and the railing. Then there were a few seconds of free falling as he plummeted into the cold waters of the Tiber.


	5. Epilogue

_March 25, 2009_

_The _Jean Danjou_, somewhere in the Mediterranean_

_20:53 (local time)_

With its full size bed and wide ocean view, the room in the _Jean Danjou_ was as comfortable as any four-star hotel room. Since assassins weren't supposed to meet their handlers face to face, 47 had only been there on a handful of occasions, but after all the times he and Diana had met over the years, usually during worse circumstances, the Agency had apparently decided to make an exception. Maybe they figured he had earned an explanation after his ordeal in Rome. After being picked up by the Agency's field operatives and taken to the yacht, his wounds had been treated by a French-speaking doctor and a nurse. They had healed nicely; chances were Dr. Ort-Meyer was partially to thank for that. 47 still had to walk around with a cane because of his injured foot; not very dignified, but necessary. He had spent the past two days waiting for the Agency to make proper contact. In the meantime, he had paid close attention to Italian and international media via the vessel's onboard Wi-Fi. All of them were still reporting about the massacre in the GiuTech building and how the police were working hard to find the killer. Giuttari's secretary wasn't named among the victims, though the news did mention that a random bystander was killed. Several witnesses had seen a man in a police uniform run out of the building with a gun chasing a man in a suit who had apparently been part of the conference; the authorities stressed emphatically that they were not involved in the killings in any way. Everyone, save for a few conspiracy theorists, believed them; it hadn't been hard to convince them since the same man had been the victor of a huge shootout on a bridge over the Tiber that killed five policemen. Four civilians also lost their lives; three were hit by stray bullets from both the police and the gunman and the fourth was killed when said gunman fled the scene and killed a Ford driver for his car. The vehicle was found outside the city the next day, torched and burned into a black, metallic briquette. The future of the GiuTech stock was in the balance as shareholders waited for an announcement about who would take over Sabrina Giuttari's position as CEO and primary shareholder. On a side note, a replacement for Senator Moro had already been appointed.

47 lay on his bed with his laptop, which the Agency had retrieved from his hotel room, on the bedside table, playing an online broadcast of CNN. In spite of the surroundings, being held in a room dressed in robes and some kind of white jumpsuit of which he was given a clean set every morning had started to bring back memories of the asylum. As the broadcast transitioned from foreign to economy, there was a knock on the door.

"Enter," 47 said bored.

The door was slid aside and a man in his late 30s with a stern face and brown, well-groomed hair dressed in a tight gray blazer, matching pants and brown leather shoes stepped in. In his right hand he carried some kind of thick metal briefcase with a digital combination lock, and in his left hand he carried a brown leather attaché case.

"Mr. 47," he said curtly. He spoke with an American accent with a touch of New England in it.

47 didn't respond.

"Mr. 47, you are not being held prisoner here. This vessel is owned by your handler, Ms Diana Burnwood. Like her, I work for the Agency."

"How do I know you are who you claim to be?"

"I thought you might say that."

The man walked over to the table, put down the briefcase on it and opened it. The briefcase appeared to contain a built-in computer complete with screen, webcam lens and keyboard. The man in the suit pressed a button to turn it on, typed a password when prompted and a desktop appeared.

"I apologize this couldn't be done more directly," he said as he brought up some kind of program, "but it's been some very busy days."

A loading bar appeared in the center of the screen and a human face materialized out of a cloud of pixels.

"Hello, 47."

47 didn't even have to look at the screen to see who it was; he'd heard that English accent many times before.

"Good to hear from you, Diana," he told her.

"Sorry I couldn't come visit. I'm not really supposed to, but I guess we're pretty far beyond that rule now."

47 rose out of bed and sat down on a chair in front of the screen.

"What's kept you?"

"Meeting with the board. About your Italian assignment."

"Most of those bodies were not my work."

"We know. We found some cleverly concealed cameras the rival assassin had hidden in advance and were able to extract footage from them. And we read the witness statements from the bridge incident. You're not in trouble here. Neither am I, believe it or not. As far as management is concerned, we both carried our jobs out more than satisfactory. Good idea with the toss on the bridge, by the way."

47 glanced at the man in the blazer, who sat still and silent like a statue.

"Don't worry, Mr. Hollis is a trusted employee of the Agency. You can speak freely in front of him."

"So what's the problem?"

"The problem is we think there is a leak in the Agency."

"Is that why my assignment fell apart?"

"Our cleanup crew found your contact dead in a dumpster in an alley near the house. Strangled just like the security guard at the correspondents' dinner."

_So it really was him_, 47 thought.

"He did say he was there that night," he then remarked to Diana.

"The other assassin, you mean?"

47 gave her a quick recap of the other hitman's story and involvement in the Moro killing as he had confessed to it. Afterwards, Diana hummed suspiciously.

"This may be worse than we thought," she said.

"How so?"

"Whoever the leak was, he or she was able to lead a rival assassin to the place of your next job at the exact time you would be there. It must be someone pretty high up, someone with access to your information."

"The assassin knew my name," 47 remarked. "And he knew about my barcode."

Diana sighed.

"Figures. The Agency has set up a task force within the intelligence department to identify the leak."

"Unless we find out the other man's name," 47 lamented, "that could take months."

"Actually, there are some good news there," Diana said. "Mr. Hollis will give you the details."

Mr. Hollis opened the attaché case and handed 47 a dossier. The Agency's logo was printed in black on the cover along with warning labels such as "CLASSIFIED" and "FOR TETRA EYES ONLY".

"The assassin's name is Umberto Perugini. Also known as _Il corvo_."

"'The Raven'?"

"The files in Mr. Hollis' possession have all the information we have on him," Diana said, "but sadly they are incomplete and filled with gaps. Apparently, we tried to recruit Perugini years ago, but he declined."

_He would have made one hell of an employee_, 47 thought.

"He used to work for the Cosa Nostra in Palermo," Diana said. "After they were shut down in the 1980s, he apparently went freelance. We have records of over 60 hits he has carried out in Italy, England, France, Portugal, Spain and the U.S., but there are probably more we don't have on file. His preferred style of killing appears to be strangulation. He uses some kind of rod as leverage and chokes them with it from behind."

"Do you know where he lives?"

"He owned a house in Tuscany. We raided it a few days ago. As far as we can tell, he isn't coming back."

"Did you try tracking his payment?"

"We did, and there are some good and bad news on that point."

"What?"

"The bad news is Perugini is practically bankrupt. Apparently, his rather extravagant lifestyle got the better of him. He provided a down payment until the job was done, but unfortunately, his accounts that we can find are empty. I guess he had hoped to kill you before you could finish the job and cash in on the rest."

"Let me know when you can pay me," 47 said sternly. "Until then, my services for you are suspended."

"Now for the good news," Diana said surprisingly optimistically. "The Agency itself will cover the cost of the hit."

A red flag went up for 47.

"Why the generosity?"

"I met with The Chairman a few days ago. In his opinion, you fulfilled the contract to the letter. You killed Giuttari with a weapon that could be tied to her and you handed that weapon to the client, Perugini."

"I was supposed to hand it to my contact."

"Even if Perugini hadn't choked him to death with a truncheon in an alley before going to GiuTech, all you really did was skip the middleman. Besides, Perugini tried to set you up and kill you and the Chairman doesn't look kindly on attacks on the Agency."

"So what does this mean?"

"Well, Perugini skipped payment and you know how the Agency punishes that."

47 knew, indeed.

"Capture and kill."

Only a handful of individuals had ever tried to get out of paying the Agency for its services, but those who had didn't stay alive for long. 47 had dealt with one such person. He had been a Wall Street broker who had put a hit on his wife and made the first payment in cash with forged bills. His plan was apparently to collect on her life insurance and use that for payment, but due to his secrecy, the operative made the death look like a suicide, and so the life insurance was lost. The Agency tracked him down to Honolulu, where 47 drowned him in his hotel suite.

"Make no mistake, 47, we _will_ find Perugini one day. And when we do, you'll be the first we call."

"Don't," 47 said seriously.

"Pardon?"

"I'm not sure I'll be able to stay objective if I meet him again. I might not be able to do my job as well as usual."

"Fair enough. Still, look over the files, see if you find anything interesting. I'll be in touch, 47."

She logged off. Mr. Hollis took the computer briefcase and left the room. The Perugini files were left on 47's table. He knew that eventually the Agency would come to him whether he liked it or not. Nobody else in their employment had the skills to take down Perugini. And Perugini would be prepared, wherever he was.


End file.
